


mouth full of crimson gold

by shirohyasha



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Fantasizing, M/M, Violent Sex, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 02:32:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11727678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirohyasha/pseuds/shirohyasha
Summary: Akira is so goddamn pretty.





	mouth full of crimson gold

**Author's Note:**

> um hi  
> pretty sure this is spoiler free  
> just. a lot of akechi's violent thoughts about akira. very violent sexual thoughts. a lot of them. possibly rape/non-con though none of it happens in reality, but if it did definitely. i'm a bit uncertain about exactly how many tags this needs so. be warned of that and be careful.

And the thing is –

_Akira really is pretty._

Akira is far prettier than anyone should be – he hides it well enough, with his stupid glasses and stupider masks, but he’s agonisingly pretty and Akechi wants to beat his beautiful sharp face in until he’s dripping blood, swollen and ugly, no longer something so pretty and so tempting.

Of course he won’t. That would entirely defeat the purpose of befriending him, of attempting to befriend the rest of the thieves. The others don’t like him and they trust him less but Akira is cheerfully oblivious to them, and Akechi wants to hurt him for it.

But. He. Won’t.

 

It’s mostly their personas that do the fighting but they themselves still get kicked around an indecent amount and the bruises don’t vanish with the rest of the Metaverse. Akechi has never been more grateful for the strictly-enforced long sleeves of law enforcement and he’s never felt this strong an urge to peel someone else’s clothes off, even though this is only partly sexual. He wants to put Akira on his back and map the bruises, wants to add to them, wants to reopen scabbed wounds and carve new ones into his pale pretty skin until he’s biting back screams. He wants Akira _hurting._

It shouldn’t be this personal. He’s so much more likely to slip up and make mistakes if he gets this close to the case. But the whole ideology of the phantom thieves had ground his patience down to nothing before he’d even met them, and having to be friendly with them is torturous. If he can’t take it out on something he’ll snap and lose it before the case is completed and if stupid Akira, with his stupid beautiful face, has to take the brunt of his anger then so be it.

He thinks about it. Kicking Akira to the floor. Pulling his hair until his eyes watered, punching his jaw until his lip split, stamping on his fingers until they broke. The real Akira can’t have a clue about any of this, not with how guileless his smiles are. Akechi smiles back and laughs at whatever it was that just came out of Akira’s mouth (he doesn’t care he doesn’t _care_ ) and thinks about punching his face until his eye swells up, purple with bruising, swollen shut.

Perhaps he wouldn’t be so personal about it if he wasn’t so achingly attracted to Akira. Perhaps it would just be another case, albeit a more irritating one, if Akira wasn’t so desperately his type. But Akira is another reminder of what a fuckup he is – can’t even be attracted to girls like the rest of the world – that it might just be the final straw.

Akira’s shirt rides up and for just a moment Akechi sees a fist-shaped bruise over his left kidney and his mouth goes dry.

He looks away quickly and stares down at his phone. He’s not going to think about this. No more than he has to, no more than his shitty traitorous brain absolutely must.

 

He closes a fist about himself and shuts his eyes. Trying to blank his mind is pointless – Akira is there as soon as his eyes shut and Akechi has long since resigned himself to this, at least until this whole mess is sorted.

Akira grins up at him with a mouth full of blood. It should be disgusting. Akechi groans quietly at the thought.

He starts with his neck – they’re pretty good at avoiding attacks to the head, which means there aren’t many marks here, but that just leaves a blank slate for Akechi to work with. He wraps his hands around Akira’s throat and squeezes, careful not to cut off the air or the blood. Wanting to fuck Akira while he’s dazed and in so much pain as to almost be non-responsive is a little different to wanting to fuck him passed out.

He could bite Akira’s neck. He doesn’t really like the thought of leaving neat teeth marks though, not on his neck, and tearing out huge chunks of flesh is a little much, even for him. He’d get blood in his teeth.

There are bruises on Akira’s shoulders. Akechi presses them, vicious and cruel. Akira makes little sounds through his bitten lips and glares at Akechi, doesn’t fight back.

Akira would fight back. Akira would fight back unless he liked this, and oh, there’s a thought, there’s another horrible thought to go on his list of horrible thoughts about Akira. Akira, asking Akechi to hurt him, _begging_ Akechi to hurt him. It’s not that farfetched. Akira gets hurt more than the rest of them, is more reckless and daring than any of the others. The idea that he might enjoy it isn’t that much of a stretch of the imagination.

But no, imagining Akira fighting back is filthily hot too, kicking and punching and writhing beneath him, slender and lithe and already in pain. Akechi could pin him down by the wrists, stretch his arms out above his head and leave him vulnerable like that. Pin him by the throat, let the knowledge that Akechi could kill him like this act as the restraints. Tying him down would be an option too, hands cuffed behind him, above him, any way Akechi wanted him to be.

Akira’s skin is fairly tough by now but handcuffs would still leave ligature marks, and with how tightly Akechi would tie the ropes there’d be marks from them too.

Akechi comes into his hand at the thought of Akira straining against handcuffs so hard his skin broke, leaving dark red welts in the skin that wouldn’t fade for weeks. It would be so, so easy for him to get hold of a pair of handcuffs and it would only be a little more difficult for him to forcibly use them on Akira. To trick him into a moment alone with Akechi, to cuff him to something immovable and to hurt him.

His come is drying on his hand, cool and sticky and disgusting. Sex disgusts him. Sex is disgusting. Akira disgusts him.

 

He thinks of Akira’s hair, about pulling it until Akira snarls in pain, snaps at him to stop.

He wouldn’t, unless he wanted to. He could pull Akira’s hair as much as he pleased. Wind his fingers through it and yank, knock those stupid plastic glasses off his face and slap him. Force his fingers down his throat, make him choke on the soft leather. He wonders about Akira’s gag reflex, if he could force three fingers to the back of his throat without so much as a flinch or if Akira would choke and cough with the barest hint of pressure.

He likes that idea, Akira drooling around his fingers, tears in his furious eyes. Spit and tears dripping off his chin as Akechi pries open his jaw and presses down on his tongue. Fucking his mouth would be hot but just leaving him on the floor, knees aching and face a mess, without doing anything sexual would surely confuse him, frustrate him, humiliate him. He isn’t worth Akechi’s time. Why does Akechi spend so much time on him?

He thinks of Akira’s bruised knees. Akira spends a lot of time jumping and landing heavily, slamming into walls and floors. His knees are probably already permanently mottled purple. Akechi wants to kick his legs out from underneath him, watch him slam into the floor, watch him try and bite back the hiss of fresh pain reawakening old pain.

 

In real life, outside the fantastical confines of his own cursed head, Akechi and Akira are polite and friendly and cordial and a bunch of other gentle-sounding words that Akechi could list if he wasn’t grinding his teeth behind his smile. Akira flirts with him – sometimes gently, sometimes outrageously – and Akechi is flustered at him. It’s not an act. He doesn’t know how to react and so he just gapes, because the alternative is slamming a fist into his stomach and snarling at him not to run his filthy mouth.

Akechi thinks that they possibly could have been friends, if they’d had two different upbringings and had met as normal high schoolers. Maybe friends, more likely rivals. It’s unlikely Akechi’s _feelings_ ever would have got this out of control in this other universe, or maybe they would have. Maybe Akechi would have hated Akira as much as he wanted to fuck him in every universe. Maybe he never stood a chance.

 

He thinks about spreading Akira out on the floor and tracing over the bruises that flower across his back. Akira has a lot of bruises and if there weren’t enough to play with he could just add more, keep going until he was satisfied. He could tear Akira’s shirt open, cut it off entirely, use a knife on him if he wanted to, remain fully clothed himself. Seated on Akira’s back, playing with the bruises and scratches and scars. Worming his fingers and tongue into cuts until the scabs fell off and he bled again, digging his nails into new scar tissue.

God, he wants to make Akira scream.

He never will. He’ll be able to wash his hands of all of this soon. He’ll never have to look at Akira again, will never have to think about him except as an example of a case closed perfectly.

He can’t wait. He’s jacked off more times since meeting Akira than he has since he’d figured out how his dick worked. It’ll be a blessing when this is all over.

 

He thinks about Akira bent over a desk, nails clawing at the wood, face held into it. He thinks about Akira’s haughty pretty voice breaking on the moans Akechi forces out of him, Akira begging his name, Akira’s voice growing rougher and more demanding and more helpless the longer Akechi taunts him for. Akira shoving his hips back against him, arching his pale marred back, sweaty hair curling against his neck.

He comes without thinking of blood, without thinking of bruising or of torture. He wipes himself clean and thinks about doing the same to Akira, wiping away the mess he’d leave between his thighs. If they ever did fuck he’d insist on protection but in his head, where STDs are infinitely more unlikely, he can leave Akira a dripping mess without repercussions. Akira would have to stay still until he was finished, legs shaking with the effort of holding himself upright even after being fucked for what felt like hours. He’d be slumped across the desk, whimpering every time Akechi touched between his legs, when he was rolled over and Akechi began cleaning him with his tongue –

He realises he’s hard again at the same time he realises that this whole business is getting hellishly out of control.

Because now Akechi is on his knees before Akira and even though Akira is moaning helplessly, it’s not pain so much as him signalling _too much, this is too much_ and Akechi doesn’t want to be here, on his knees between Akira’s thighs but he is and he’s already fucking into his fist again, raw and desperate. He could bite, leave possessive pretty teeth marks between Akira’s legs, bite almost hard enough to bleed, break the skin if he wanted.

Akira grabs his hair and pulls him up, grinds up against him and bites at his mouth, sloppy and indelicate. Akechi –

lets him.

He comes again, biting his lower lip hard enough that he can taste blood.

 

Akira has a split lip the next time Akechi sees him. Akechi wonders what it tastes like.

 

This won’t end well. This can’t end well.

 

Akira would beat him in a fair fight. Akechi doesn’t want to try and kid himself otherwise. Akira would beat him within seconds, because that’s how long fights last, and he’d be flat on his back seeing stars and hearing bells.

He thinks about smothering Akira, holding a gloved hand over his nose and mouth, just enough that he can’t quite get enough air. He thinks about jerking Akira off with his gloves still on, about the precome that would stain the leather. Akira clawing at the hand at his throat, bare fingers scrabbling at Akechi’s clothed arm. Letting Akira breathe, feeling air rushing out of his swollen lips. Or not, watching his eyes flutter shut helplessly, the hands on his arm stilling.

It’s hardly even about him anymore. It’s about Akira, Akira, Akira and his insufferable smirks and impossible prettiness. Akechi never stood a chance. He wants to feed Akira his gun.

Not even to shoot him, not at first. He just wants to see him scared, see him helpless. Akira would look so good with his lips stretched around the barrel and Akechi is only getting angrier, only growing less and less certain about what he’s supposed to do.

 

He never even kisses Akira before it all goes to shit.

**Author's Note:**

> am i projecting onto akechi or akira we will never know


End file.
